


Vow It

by Prince_of_Exiles



Category: DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Bromance, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Innuendo, M/M, Past Lives, Spoilers for recent Superboy-related comics, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22585453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_of_Exiles/pseuds/Prince_of_Exiles
Summary: Jon has been summoned from the future to deal with a dire and present danger. Damian has just escaped certain death to return as a harbinger for an entity of untold evil, and even the Justice League might not be able to stop him. In the face of this crisis, why is Damian so certain that Jon is the answer? Can Jon really choose between his closest friend and the fate of the world? Or will the Dark Queen truly rise from her prison? Only one thing is certain- one way or another, the dark swords will have blood.(Will reference recent events involving Superboy as of Oct 2019.)
Relationships: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	Vow It

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this around the middle of October last year and never got around to finishing it because I got sidetracked by a bunch of things. One of my two unfinished fics last year. Recently, I decided to bite the bullet and exorcise this (and the other one) from my mind, once and for all. Not that I haven't enjoyed writing this.
> 
> Also, while there is mention of drinking in this fic as part of a joke, my personal stance on it is that alcohol is poison on many levels, and would strongly and respectfully encourage you guys to stay away from it. I'm sorry if this upsets you- that is not my intent, I just feel very strongly about this.
> 
> I also apologise for any inaccuracies and other incompetence on my part, and humbly hope that you will derive some enjoyment from this work. Thank you.

“Then, you do it!” Damian hissed, unflinching as Jason whipped a gun up, pressing it into his forehead.

Dick lunged forward but Tim held him back. Batman loomed over it all from the shadowy platform above.

Damian gave his foster brother a moment to stew in his own impotence, then swatted the gun away scornfully.

“Again- bring me Jonathan Kent.” 

“Damian-” Dick began, anguished.

“There’s still time to work something out,” Tim insisted.

“What the hell can that boy do?” Jason growled.

Damian glanced pointedly at Jason’s cold unfired gun, hanging limply by his thigh, and savoured the flush of shame that joined the anger in his adoptive brother’s cheeks. He looked up directly at their father, though, when he replied.

“He won’t hesitate.”

Batman held his gaze for a moment, then turned and walked away. Damian smiled.

* * *

“My ears are burning.”

“For the last time, Jon, you don’t have ‘Time Traveler’s Rash’.”

Jon’s eyes widened and his broad mouth split into an open grin as he regarded the twinkle in Saturn Girl’s eyes.

“No... it’s an expression, a superstition. It means someone’s talking about you.”

She quirks a grin of her own.

“Cute.”

“What?”

“That you’d shrug off high-powered laser blasts and dark cosmic energy beams but _still_ worry about your ears burning.”

“I like my ears.”

“So you should. They are _very_ cute.”

Jon smiled, the ghost of a blush fading as quickly as it came. 

“Don’t let Lightning Lad hear you say that.”

“Why? He thinks they’re very cute too.”

Before he was forced to think up a reply, spacetime bent and funneled around him, light swirling and spiralling down as Jon sank gratefully back into the past…

...or present.

It was hard to keep track. But the buttery aroma of waffles, and the welcome sight of an extra-large tub of vanilla ice-cream on the kitchen counter, cleared the tendrils of temporal displacement like sunlight through fog. Home sweet home.

He barely had time to turn around before his mom had her arms around him.

“Mom!” Jon managed to squeak.

“I’m not buying the you’re-squeezing-me-too-tight routine!” she scolded, muffled by his suit, but she released him anyway, studying him.

“No new scars.”

“That we can see, anyway,” his father pointed out as he added a second scoop of ice-cream onto a towering stack of waffles.

“Dad!”

“That’s what the strip search is for later.”

“Ma!”

Clark strode over and grabbed his son in a bear hug.

“I’m glad you’re home.”

“Thanks, Pa! I’m glad to be back, but you sounded so urgent when you called-”

“After,” Lois interrupted. “Let’s save that for after our afternoon tea. We can spare a little family time, can’t we Clark?”

“Ma?”

“Of course,” Clark agreed with too quick a smile and shepherded his son to the dining table.

It was hours later after the dinner plates had been left to “soak” in the sink, when his mother finally relented, and his father told him everything.

Jon buried his face in his hands. He took a breath, fighting to force his shaken thoughts into words.

_No. I don’t believe it. Why didn’t you call me sooner?_

“W-where is he? Where’s Damian? Gotham?”

“He’s-”

Lois leaned forward, her face pale and drawn.

“Jon, I don’t want to sound heartless. He’s your friend. Maybe even a brother to you. But is meeting him really such a good idea?”

“Ma… he needs me.”

“I need you.”

Jon caught the glimmer of unshed tears in his mother’s eyes and took her cold and trembling hands into his own. He bent down to kiss them, those hands perfumed in the warm scents of butter and vanilla essence.

“You’ll always have me.”

His father clasped his large hand over his mother’s shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly.

“I’ll be there. I won’t let anything happen to our son.”

And that was that. When the Kent men took a last look at the queen of their hearts, she stood at the doorway as regally as any warrior’s wife or mother, fierce and fearless. His heart in a clammy grip, Jon turned and broke free of gravity.

As the wind roared in his ears, his father’s words looped in his mind.

 _“We didn’t know- Bruce only told us about a month after. Ra’s al Ghul had returned to lay claim on Damian, wielding dark powers worse than anything they’d seen before. They would’ve lost Damian- and they_ did _lose Damian. He sacrificed himself, plunging his grandfather in with him into what Bruce calls a Thanatos Rift- a one-way portal to a realm of unending death._

_“It’s alright, Jon, Damian returned... but it was bleak for a while. We almost did call you- maybe we should’ve- but we didn’t really know what to tell you. That Damian was dead? That he was missing? There was no body, and the rift closed as soon as Ra’s and Damian fell into it. Maybe the rift could be reopened. Bruce wouldn’t give up hope. I couldn’t blame him. If I couldn’t bring myself to tell you about Damian, I could only imagine what he was going through._

_“Then, one day Bruce told us Damian had returned. He’s tight-lipped about the how, but I did speak with Damian myself. I don’t pretend to understand all of it, but the gist? The poor boy was lost in a pocket dimension of sorts, a kind of prison for souls marked with the taint of death. He would have been trapped there forever, except he found a way out._

_“From his account of it, Damian found a sword in a lake, grasped in a dark hand. When he approached it, a voice rang out._

_“‘Halt, Dark Soul! You tread upon unhallowed grounds.’_

_“‘I don’t halt for anyone, ghost,’ Damian claims he said. With Damian, I believe it._

_“‘You dare brave the waters of Styx? Then be you cursed to draw this evil sword, and rise as the Dark Queen’s Herald,’ the voice decreed._

_“Damian tried to fight it, and for a while, he could resist the compulsion to step into the churning water. But whatever power it was Damian fought, he discovered too late that it was tireless and possessed a terrifying patience. Inch by inch, twitch by twitch, it bent Damian’s will, forcing him to draw the sword from the wraith-like hand._

_“But Damian had one final feat of defiance in store. Gripping the sword in both hands, he snapped it in two. Just when he was gloating, thunderous laughter forced him to his knees._

_“‘Thus is the prophecy fulfilled and the seal on the sword undone! Rejoice, Herald, for you shall return to the land of the living, bearing with you the brother blades, Hemlock and Mistilteinn. All shall know Fear, the Herald of Retribution.’_

_“That was how Bruce found him, later. Twin swords in hand, as naked as the day he was born- with one crucial change._

_“Trapped in the realm of Thanatos- Bruce’s name for it, not mine- and then locked in his struggle with the nameless power, Damian had spent a lot more time than he had expected. It’d been two months for us, but Damian returned to us no longer a child. We think- the scans estimate- that he’s twenty-three now. And it gets worse._

_“We were cautious at first, of course, but Damian’s story didn’t give us much to work with. Even if we believed it, and there was no denying the actual swords he brought back, there were too many questions left unanswered. Bruce’s database, the Krypton archives, and even the Justice League’s databanks couldn’t answer what was so special about those swords. Our scans revealed they’re made from average steel, the kind that we make today. In fact, the swords may well have been forged the day Damian reappeared. They’re brand-new. The Justice League suspects the swords were made corporeal the instant Damian brought them back with him, and that their true power lies in some mystical essence contained within. But the swords resist magical divination. Just when we were trying to solve this puzzle before us, the swords themselves decided to drop us a hint._

_“It was carnage. We don’t know how the swords escaped containment, but they did. One moment Damian- Robin- was scouting the base of an illegal arms syndicate, and the next moment he stood over their decapitated bodies, the smaller of the swords, Hemlock, soaked in blood. Had I arrived a moment later, Bruce might have joined the smugglers, but Damian did a number on me too. This- this I got from Mistilteinn. It’s like the God Killer, only worse. It cut into me like a hot knife through butter... and the wound didn’t just feel physical. I could feel the cold malice of the blade tearing into my very soul, and my strength, my will, seemed to drain out of me, along with my blood. Had the sword cut a little deeper, I think I would’ve… Don’t look so worried. It was scary, I’ll admit, but I’m good as new now._

_“Somehow, we took Damian down. Bruce noticed that Damian hadn’t used Mistilteinn until I joined the fray, and guessed that the blade is only potent against metahumans like me. He gambled that Hemlock works the same way, except it only works with normal people. Bruce went after Mistilteinn and I went after Hemlock. It was a close call, but a good one._

_“Damian says he doesn’t remember killing the smugglers or fighting Bruce and me. We locked the swords up again, and reinforced the containment rooms with magical wards, but honestly, we simply don’t know what we’re doing, let alone if our measures will prove adequate this time._

_“I’ve managed to convince the rest of the League to place Damian under house arrest for now. I had to- Bruce was being all stoic and abstained from the debate. I also knew you would have wanted me to speak up for him too. I know how close you boys are. Damian’s been asking for you, claiming you can end this menace. Honestly, I don’t know if I believe him, still... I don’t blame him for wanting his brother-in-arms to be by his side as he faces this... ordeal. But Son, I can’t let him hurt you. I can’t let anyone hurt you. I need you to understand that.”_

Jon stopped, his father speeding past before he noticed. Clark wheeled back, brows knitted in bafflement.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you really alright, Pa?”

His father sighed and rubbed his jaw.

“A little worried. But I know how badly you want to help Damian.”

Jon scratched his head awkwardly.

“I don’t mean that... Dad… you got hurt… like really _bad_ hurt. And you didn’t tell me. I still can’t really process all that.”

Jon felt his father clasp his shoulders and met his serious blue gaze.

“I’m sorry, Son. You have to understand- it’s one thing to know you’re physically nineteen-”

“-twenty-one.”

“What?”

“Sorry. There was just so much to do with the Legion, and Brainiac said he could send me back to whatever time that was least likely to give Ma a fit.”

“I’ve seriously missed three more birthdays with you?”

“I’m sorry, Pa! I won’t do it again.”

Clark heaved a heavy sigh and pulled Jon into a tight hug.

“It’s only been twelve years since I first held you in my arms. To the world, you may be a fully-grown man, out there saving worlds I can barely imagine, but in my heart, I still have a 12-year-old out there who’s never coming home.”

Jon drew a shaky breath, trembling as he held back tears.

“Dad, I…”

“I don’t blame you. I could never blame you. You’re every bit the hero I raised you to be. This is… this is just the way things are.”

Jon buried his tears in his father’s still reassuringly broad chest, and they floated over the highway, letting the purr of engines below wash over their raw emotions.

Perhaps there was still a little left, later, when Alfred greeted them at the threshold of the Wayne Manor proper and Jon seized the startled steward in an impulsive hug. Superboy grinned at the genteel reproach that earned.

“A ‘Good Evening!’ would have sufficed, Sir.”

“Oh, Alfred! I’ve missed you.”

“You’re too kind, Sir. May I express my felicitations for your most remarkable transition into manhood, Sir.”

Jon glanced hesitantly at his father who only smiled wryly.

“Thank you, Alfred. Though, I could have done with a few more years of raising my boy.”

“Boys never stop needing raising, Sir.” Then, without betraying the barest hint of a smile, he added, “Master Bruce invites you to his private office.”

Jon took an anxious step towards the imperial staircase that swept majestically up to the second floor.

“Is Damian-”

“Master Damian has instructed me to guide you to his room.”

Superman held out his hand cautioningly.

“He really shouldn’t be in there alone.”

But both Clark and Jon could hear Bruce Wayne speak through the hidden earpiece Alfred was wearing.

“There are cameras recording everything, and the room has been upgraded to deal with… eventualities. I think we can give the boys some privacy.”

Jon was still trying to work out the logic of that when his father held his shoulder solicitously.

“I’m not so sure about this.”

Jon looked up and flashed a reassuring smile.

“I’ll be alright, Pa. I promise, if any strange swords appear, I’ll get out of there and regroup with you and Batman.”

His father had to mull over it for a moment, but he eventually acquiesced. Alfred led the way, and Jon, with a final encouraging look for his father, followed, nervously aware his father could hear his heart racing.

Despite everything he’d said, Jon was taut with tension, as if he were preparing for a fight.

“If I may be so bold, Sir, I believe Master Damian has been fretting over the prospect of you turning down his invitation.”

Jon took a moment to absorb this.

“He has?”

“He’s taken to yoga.”

“Yikes. We’d better hurry.”

Happily, Damian wasn’t doing the Full Locust Pose when they walked in. Instead, he lounged languidly on a florid ivory-white chaise framed in dark wood. As Jon entered, Damian’s sharp jaw dipped towards his old friend, and his blue-green irises glittered like a trickle of gemstones against the uptilt of his eyes' petal-like curves. His jade-green shirt, carelessly buttoned, ran with sheer stripes that teased slivers of a body the colour of antique brass, and the temper of a bladesmith’s masterwork. Jon gaped.

Adult Damian smirked.

“Take it in. I’ll wait.”

Jon shut his mouth, then opened it again in a scowl.

“I _so_ didn’t say it like that!”

“Did too.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Pardon the interruption to such a riveting debate, Sirs, but I shall excuse myself and return with some hot cocoa.”

“What, Pennyworth? No brandy?”

“You drink?” Jon demanded, plopping himself unceremoniously on the chaise, shoving Damian’s foot aside with his butt while Alfred quietly left the room.

“You don’t?” 

“Not as far as my mum knows.”

“Now we’ve got that confession on tape, young man.”

“Yeah, apparently you need 24-hour supervision now.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’ve always needed 24-hour supervision. I’ve just never permitted it- until now.”

Jon considered this for a moment, then punched Damian in the arm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Stabbing my dad.”

“TT! ...fine.”

Then Jon tackled Damian in a hug. 

“What- the- hell.”

“Heck,” Jon corrected, “and this is for remembering to call for me.”

Damian relaxed, but his tone was grave.

“You know why, right?”

“To help you with this cursed swords thing.”

“To kill me.”

Jon sat bolt upright. 

“What?”

Damian raised himself on his elbows and peered up into Jon’s unnaturally blue eyes. 

“I hate to admit it, but there’s no one I trust more to-”

“No.”

“Jon-”

“No! How can you-”

“Because I made a promise that day. Don’t you remember? I stood beside you, before your father, and swore that I would never put you in harm’s way; that I would protect you.”

“Then you remember that I made the same promise! To protect _you!_ I can’t-”

“And that’s exactly why you must! Why I believe you won’t hesitate to do what must be done. Savior’s warning! My triggering of you killing millions! You see it too, right?”

Jon leapt off the chaise and hung in the air, his back turned resolutely against Damian.

“I seem to remember someone saying that timeline has changed with that future’s Drake’s sacrifice.”

“Yeah, is that why someone decided to go halfway across the galaxy to go find himself?”

“Because I was ten, Damian. Ten with a ticking time bomb inside of me, and no one who wasn’t family trusted me not to go off and destroy the world.”

Damian sat up.

“First of all, it wasn’t the world. You’re not the asteroid that ends human civilisation as we know it. Secondly, _I_ believed in you.”

“You’re family.”

“A saccharine sentiment, but not exactly true, is it? Family _has_ to love you from day one. I _chose_ to- oh- er…”

Jon whipped around, beaming.

“No backsies!”

Damian draped a hand over his face and sighed.

“Well… you grow on people. Like fungus.”

“You said you _love_ me.”

“Technically, I didn’t.”

“You implied it! You implied you _love_ me.”

“What are you? Ten?”

They stared at each other for a moment before they both burst out laughing. As Jon finished wheezing his last gasp of laughter, he sank back next to Damian and clasped the slighter man’s shoulder.

“I know you’re scared. Okay, okay! Not scared. Concerned. But we both know you don’t have a death wish. I’ll help any way I can, but I’m not killing you.”

Damian shook his head and ran a hand through his wavy locks. 

“Alright then. Know any other Demigods?”

“What?”

“My mother was uncharacteristically helpful, for once. But we can talk about it over supper.”

“But Alfred’s bringing us hot cocoas.”

“Alfred’s a mindreader. He’s probably laying out the crystal ice-cream bowls as we speak.”

“I’m kinda full alrea- did you say ice-cream? I’d kill for some raspberry ripple.”

“Just not to save the world?”

Jon threw a cushion at him.

* * *

Superman took his eyes off the monitor and arched an eyebrow at Batman.

“Talia al Ghul visited?”

“Trespassed,” Batman corrected, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“I guess a mother’s instincts run deep,” Superman ventured cautiously and was rewarded with a noncommittal grunt.

“... _did_ she say anything useful?”

Batman took a moment to answer.

“Apparently, our son is immortal now.”

“Immortal?”

“The word she used is ‘unkillable’. ‘Neither a man nor a god shall lay him low.’ were the other words. From her ‘sources’, if she can be believed.”

“Wow.”

“And then Damian asked her if that meant someone who is half-god and half-man might be able to kill him, and she didn’t reply.”

Batman fell silent, and Superman turned back to the screen to watch Alfred retrieving a tub of ice-cream from a fridge that could feed a small army. 

“It’s almost as if she wanted him to know.”

Superman turned back to look at Batman, surprised.

“What?” 

“That your son could be the answer.”

“Let’s get one thing straight, Bruce- my son is not killing anyone.”

Batman finally faced him, his glare palpable.

“ _No one’s_ killing my son.”

“...of course not, Bruce.” Clark clasped his friend’s shoulder. “Of course not.”

* * *

“He really is a mindreader,” Jon whispered. “Look! He got the raspberry ripple right too!”

“Shh! He’s got ears too,” Damian warned.

“Very droll, Sirs.” 

“Sorry, Alfred! And thanks! For the ice-cream.”

“Yes, you have been very useful. We will ring for you when we have further need for your usefulness.”

“You’re such a butt.”

“Alfred knows I respect his gifts. Not being in the way is one of the many gifts of his I respect.”

“Such a butt.”

Alfred left the room with the dignity of a martyred saint.

Damian watched him leave, and Jon watched the intent, memorising look on Damian’s face. For some reason, Jon’s eyes prickled, and he quickly wiped his eyes.

Damian turned back and picked up his silver dessert spoon, clinking it lightly against the embossed patterns on the crystal ice-cream bowl. He didn’t mention the redness in Jon’s eyes.

“So… your mom came to visit?” Jon prompted with forced cheer.

“TT! An invasion by any other name… Waxed lyrical about some prophecy. ‘You’re the Chosen One! You shall usher in the reign of the Dark Queen!’ Like a Lady Macbeth on LSD. But she did say something useful…”

“You said that. What did she-”

“That I can’t be killed by any man or any god. You know my dad’s theory: ‘man’ is just regular folk like your neighbourhood dog-poop picker-”

“I don’t think that’s a thing...”

“-while ‘god’ refers to metahumans. Well, from an earthling’s perspective, anyway. Superman and co. are more or less gods, with their superhuman powers and their little miracles, saving the day and smiting evil and all that.”

Jon took the spoon out of his mouth and gaped at Damian in awe, an effect spoiled by his extra red tongue.

“So you’re… immortal?”

“Try unkillable. Well, almost unkillable.”

“Almost?”

“Well, there happens to be someone I know who’s neither a full ‘god’ nor a full ‘man’.”

Jon lowered his spoon and gazed soberly at his ice-cream.

“Oh.”

Damian glanced at his former partner and turned his attention to spinning his spoon on his forefinger. Jon watched the silver whirl glumly.

“I wouldn’t hate it if you have a plan where I don’t have to die, but if it comes to it… and there’s no other option... I don’t want anyone else doing it.”

“...even if that’s what pushes me over the edge?”

The whirl wobbled, but Damian kept his eyes on it.

“You’d be saving the world.”

“And killing my best friend. I don’t know how I’d deal with that.”

The spoon tipped over and Damian caught it. He looked over to Jon.

“But you understand why I have to ask you. I _know_ you do.”

Jon leaned away from the table, raising his face to the ceiling and the warmly tinted lamps. 

“Darn it. Darn it to heck. Of course I do, Damian. Of course I do. But since when did you stop fighting destiny?”

Damian shoved his spoon into his half-melted scoop of raspberry dribble.

“Since I woke up with both my arms broken, face-down in a pool of blood I couldn’t explain, hearing my father asking yours if he was alright.”

Jon clenched his fist, his knuckles turning white.

“At least I think they were broken, because I passed out, and when I came to, my arms were fine. Your dad says the bones knitted themselves together. We figured… superhuman healing? This was before my mother graced us with her presence and told us about my new unkillable state.”

Jon slammed the table and cracked the thick marble top. His eyes flung open wide.

“Oh sherbert… oh crayfish… I didn’t mean to… Dami, how much is this table...”

Damian fought to keep a straight face.

“You know one of those big, shiny, glass buildings in Metropolis?”

“Yeah?”

“About the price of a couple of the big ones.”

“Oh shortcake… oh crumbs…”

“And you can’t replace this, really. This dining table is all my father has left to remember his parents by.”

Damian had to laugh at Jon’s look of horror.

“Are you serious? Wait, was that a joke? _This isn’t funny, Damian!_ ”

“No… ha… it is… cos… Jason breaks one every other family dinner…” Damian sighed contentedly. “Pennyworth will skewer you with a pointed observation, though.”

“This damage is repairable,” Alfred observed, making both young men jump, “I’ll just cannibalise the remnants of the last table you and Master Jason managed to reduce to rubble, Master Damian.”

“Curses! I shall unmask your secret butler teleportation technique yet, Pennyworth!” Damian hissed.

Jon looked down, shamefaced.

“I’m sorry, Alfred. I’ll help fix it.”

“It’s quite alright, Sir. I believe you were only excited over an idea you had for Master Damian’s predicament.”

Jon gasped.

“You _do_ read minds.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir?” Alfred replied placidly. 

“Idea?” Damian prodded, and Jon broke into an eager smile.

“Yeah! We can ask the Legion!”

Damian’s brows drooped.

“That’s your big idea? Google it in the 31st Century?”

“Also known as picking the Brain, but yeah! Why not? Brainiac might have an idea. The other Legionnaires too.”

Damian spread his hands in an eloquent expression of what-the-fudgesicle-are-you-talking-about.

“The League would never release the swords for you to take to the 31st Century.”

Jon pouted a little.

“Wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Damian force-fed him the unmelted balance of his ice-cream.

“But it might hurt to try. Those swords have a mind of their own. Two minds. Murderous ones. That want to use my body to kill.”

“Superboy might have a point, though,” Batman’s voice suddenly boomed from invisible speakers. Jon half-yelped in surprise. Damian fed him more ice-cream.

“You have a PA system installed in your house?” Superman’s voice echoed incredulously.

“What? How else do you wake up your boys when your Alfred has the day off?”

“Jon has super hearing.”

“Bite me.”

“I believe you were making a point, Sir?” Alfred prompted to the room in general.

“Ahem. Yes. Thank you, Alfred. As I was saying, Superboy has a point. We might not be able to release the swords themselves, but we could release the data from our scans.”

“And if that isn’t enough, I could assemble a small team from the future to visit the past, I mean, the present,” Jon crowed. “I told you it was a great idea!”

Damian hesitated for a moment before shrugging.

“Knock yourself out.”

“Alright! We have a plan!” Jon declared, finishing the rest of his ice-cream with gusto.

“First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll convene a meeting to discuss this,” Batman decided. “If the League is in agreement, we can proceed with the necessary arrangements. Speaking of which, will you be returning to Metropolis, or shall I ask Alfred to prepare rooms for Jon and you?”

“I think Jon and I need to return to Metropolis. Lois… wants Jon close to her for the moment. We’ll come by first thing tomorrow morning. Lois is always happier when she’s on the beat.”

“I’ll call,” Jon promised.

Damian arched a brow.

“You're keeping a phone again?”

Jon shrugged.

“It’s the 21st Century.”

“Did you just… insinuate that we’re… _quaint?_ ”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Damian walked Jon to the door. Superman was already hovering over the courtyard, waiting for his son while watching the two young men trade quips.

“You still look like my baby brother.”

“There are baby’s bottoms with more fuzz than your face, _big brother_.”

“As if you’ve grown any facial hair!”

“I’ll have you know, I shaved this morning.”

“With what? A nanobot follicle zapper?”

“No, the edge of your Shiny Charizard.”

“Dude. Don’t joke about the Shiny Charizard. Isn’t it my turn to keep it?”

“You’ll have to speak to my lawyers about that.”

Jon hugged Damian goodbye, who muttered about his friend’s disturbing fondness for hugs. Then Jon joined his dad, and with a final wave, soared up into the cloudy night. Damian didn’t even stir as his father approached quietly from behind.

“It comes to mind that there are several people that we know who are half-human and half-metahuman. Raven, for one. Even Aquaman.”

Damian turned back to smile toothily at Bruce Wayne.

“But I want this one, Father.”

“We don’t scar the ones we love, Damian.”

Mindful that he had evidently tried to behead the man, Damian extended the courtesy of a straight face. 

“A novel concept.”

Bruce sighed.

“We try not to, anyway.”

“We both know Jon is not a killer, Father.”

“Then…”

“But I _was_ , and apparently still am. I could kill him if he’s not ready to come at me with lethal force. Jon is currently my greatest weakness, my last gamble that I have any shred of humanity left. I’m not letting anything happen to him.”

“...I can’t decide if I’m relieved or horrified.”

“I aim to please.”

* * *

Jon was in the shower when the chime of his phone made his ears prick up. Sweeping the shampoo suds from his eyes, Jon darted out of the shower to snatch his phone from the bathroom shelf.

It took two tries to answer the call, by which time more shampoo foam had dripped into his eyes.

“Ow… my eyes…”

“Ow, _my_ eyes! You’re on video call, idiot!”

“Sorry, sorry! I didn’t see. Let me wash my face.”

“Wrong angle! You’ve set the phone’s camera at the wrong angle!”

“Sorry, sorry! What’s the emergency?”

“Alfred wants to know if you’re breakfasting with us. Apparently his mind-reading powers only work in the house. Of course! He’s the anthropomorphic personification of Wayne Manor!”

“Dami! I was showering!”

“Not well, apparently. Too much foam upstairs, not nearly enough below.”

Jon glanced down and blushed.

“I was going in order.”

“So? Breakfast? I’m feeling... bratwurst and deviled eggs.”

Jon flushed harder. 

“We’re having breakfast before we leave… though I’ll probably be hungry when I arrive. I’m hungry all the time these days.”

“Well, you’re a growing boy after all.”

“I’m twenty-one!”

“Really? Looked more like five to me.”

“Dami!”

Damian smirked.

“I’ll ask Alfred to save you a plate,” Damian finally added, ending the call with a careless salute.

Jon set the phone back on the shelf and patted his burning cheeks. Furtively, he stole a peek down.

“That’s not a _five._ ”

When Jon joined Damian at the dining hall, he was brandished with a giant german sausage, accompanied by a plate of six scandalously arranged deviled eggs.

“Alfred never set this,” Jon accused.

“But then again, Alfred wasn’t treated to a Kryptonian rendering of Michelangelo’s ‘David’, was he?”

Jon blushed and refused to meet Damian’s laughing gaze.

"Dad's chaperoning us today," Jon announced without looking up as he gingerly reached for a spotless knife and a glinting fork next to a cream-coloured napkin

Damian came over and set the abandoned napkin over Jon's lap, making the younger man's abdomen flinch involuntarily.

"I know," Damian replied casually, "he's video conferencing from the Batcave with the rest of the League."

Damian dragged out a nearby chair and sprawled in it.

Jon hesitated a moment, then cut into his bratwurst. Wisps of steam still rose from the chunk he cut free, and he cautiously clamped his mouth over it.

"Mmmmpppppphhhhh! OrmarhGOUHRD!" Jon moaned as the well-seasoned juices exploded in his mouth. It was a good thirty seconds before he swallowed the mouthful reluctantly.

"This is incredible!" he exclaimed at last.

"I'll take your word for it."

Jon turned to Damian in surprise.

"What did you have for breakfast, then? Or haven't you had it?"

Damian flapped a hand dismissively.

"Haven't the appetite."

"Let's share then. Here."

"You're not putting your sausage in my mouth."

"Ha-ha. I'm serious. Eat.”

Damian scowled at Jon's encouraging smile, and rolled his eyes. Like a snapping crocodile, he lunged forward with a malevolent glower, snatching the piece of bratwurst from the fork tines.

“Happy?”

Jon nodded cheerfully and Damien’s mouth curled in disgust.

Cajoling, teasing, and pouting in turn, Jon fed Damien a good portion of the breakfast and finished the rest. At last, Jon slumped back in his seat.

“Oh, man… haven’t been this full in a while.”

“You should come by more often. Pennyworth’s always passive-aggressively apologising for dinner being simple fare, as most of the larder often goes into the first dinner, which gets neglected, and then gets ruined by... _tepidity_.”

“I’d love to… but… I return, like, every other month or so, and I cheat even then with time travel, to make it seem like I’m only gone those few weeks in the future. So what little time I spend here, I kind of spend with my parents.”

Damian sat there impassively, but Jon tensed up.

“But I want to come. I _will_ come by more often. I guess I’ve been a sucky friend, huh?”

Damian shrugged.

“You came, didn’t you? That’s the thing that matters now.”

Jon hung his head, a heaviness weighing down in his chest.

“I hated it.”

Damian peered up in mild surprise.

“What?”

“Hated that I wasn’t there when all of this started. Hated that you had to call me. I hate not even knowing that I’d almost lost you.”

“TT!”

“What?”

“It’s possible that others feel the same way about you. It’d suck to know that an intergalactic elephant stepped on you and I wasn’t there to capture the moment.”

Jon scratched his head ruefully.

“I guess… I’d never seen it that way. But, you know… I try to be careful out there. Mostly.” Jon sighed. “Okay, I think I see it now. I’ve been having fun on my own, making up for all that time I lost in that twisted parallel universe, but that’s time _we_ lost. That’s time we should make up for together.”

“TT!”

“That’s it? That’s all I’m going to get?”

“You can have another one on the house.”

“Pass.”

Jon laughed first and Damian joined in.

“I understand, y’know,” Damian said at last, “we’re living the dream. Fighting the bad guys. Living by our fists and our principles. Lone wolves.”

Jon shook his head.

“I fight because there are so many things for me to fight for. For the people dear to me. For the people I meet everyday, and even for the people I might meet someday.”

Damian smiled.

“I think I got a cavity listening to that.”

Jon grinned back.

“What? In your big, bad, lone wolf canine?”

“Woof.”

“That’s a dog.”

“Fine. Howl.”

“That’s not- you’re supposed to go, ‘Awooo!’”

“I’m not saying that.”

“But it’s what a wolf says.”

“Sounds more like a ghost sneeze.”

“Ghosts don’t sneeze.”

“How do you know?”

“They don’t have lungs, for one...”

“So suddenly, you’re giving x-rays to ghosts?”

“Hello? X-ray vision, remember?”

Later, Damian would remember that Alfred had tried to warn them seconds before it happened. Just as Jon was making his eyes glow for dramatic effect, the hell blades materialised in the centre of the room, sending sparks crawling up the chandelier and dripping down onto the table.

“Master Dam-”

A cold black eldritch blast burst out from the twin swords, and Damian turned just in time to see Alfred being struck down.

“Alfred!” he heard Jon shout, but his body had already taken over. Picking up Jon’s breakfast knife, Damian saw himself hurl it at the swords.

‘Seriously?’ he mentally demanded to himself and fought the urge to grapple Jon who had suddenly grabbed him. The room blurred past. 

“What’s the-” But Damian never finished his question. He could feel the swords pulse their dark wave. There was nothing he could do. It hit him. That is all he would claim to remember.

* * *

The first thing Jon remembered is that Damian was in a diaper. His laughter died in his throat, though, as the next thing he realised was a cool breeze against his nether regions. He looked down, praying to see a diaper of his own.

Nope. Naked as a jaybird.

But nothing was as alarming as seeing Damian beam at him without a visible weapon in hand, or even a malicious glint in his eyes.

“I can fetch my own water, Princeling,” Jon heard- _felt-_ himself rumble.

Damian cheerfully handed Jon the waterskin while the Jon-inside-Jon screamed inside.

“You were sleeping so soundly, I did not wish to wake you.” 

Jon grunted, and even Jon-inside-Jon stopped screaming.

When did Damian start sounding so… soft and... refined?

“You said last night that our quarry is close,” Damian prompted as he settled down next to a spent campfire still puffing wisps of smoke, apparently unconcerned with Jon’s state of undress, much less the dia- the loincloth he himself was wearing.

“And yet like a swamp leech, you still cling to me,” Jon heard himself spit out.

Jon-inside-Jon braced himself for a nuclear-level explosion, but Damian merely smiled serenely.

“I might remind you that it is I who is tasked with the slaying of the Stygian Scourge.”

Jon rolled his eyes. 

“And need I remind _you_ , Princeling, that you can have your little victory parade back home in the capital- just don’t get in the way of my hunt.”

“Why would I have a parade for something I did not do?”

“Ha! Ask your brothers.”

“I am not my older brothers. You have my word as a Prince of the Realm that my shoulder shall be beside yours when we face the Stygian Scourge, as yours shall be beside mine when we return in triumph to the capital.”

They stared wordlessly at each other, but it was Jon who finally looked away.

“You may not be your older brothers, but I am as much your bound slave as I am to them.”

Damian sighed and Jon heard gravel crunch as the prince came to stand beside him.

“The gods saw fit to indenture their half-kin to my father’s service for eighteen years, it’s true. It is also true that my family’s ways… are not the best example of my city’s welcome of you. But you would struggle to find a man, woman, or child in our city who has an ill word to spare of you; and I have watched you these past five years. You love our city too.” 

Jon shrugged.

“You have good people.”

“As you are a good man. Well, half a man. A worthy demigod.”

Jon grinned despite himself, then he studied the prince and turned sober.

“It’s the same with you.”

Damian cocked his head, puzzled.

“It’s hard to find anyone in your city who doesn’t love you.” Jon broke into a fresh grin. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

A faint blush showed on Damian’s dusky skin, and he dipped his head shyly.

“It is as you said. We have good people.”

Jon-in-Jon’s heart would have stopped. Jon, though, shrugged his shoulders.

“Still, it will take more than a few pretty words, son of Vanus, to earn my respect, much less my trust. Only deeds have any coin with me.”

Damian looked up, a tranquil smile on his face.

“Fair and just.”

Jon-in-Jon felt Jon squirm a little before that honest face and clear his throat.

“You have earned my apology, at least.”

The prince cocked his head in a familiar gesture of polite puzzlement. Jon cleared his throat again.

“I don’t usually sleep bare. These past few days were a revenge, of sorts. Tormenting a thirsting man with a pitcher of water just out of reach. That was unworthy of me.”

Damian blushed more fiercely this time.

“I see.” After a moment, he added quietly, “I had thought myself discreet.”

Jon hesitated, then rested a hand on the prince’s shoulder.

“You’ve disguised your longing in everything but your gaze. If circumstances were different, I might have welcomed it. But your family has spent the past five years yanking the leash on my neck for their self-gain and perverse amusement. I will never surrender any more than I must to the House of Vanus.”

Damian looked up, paler than Jon had ever seen him.

“F-fair and just,” he managed, even mustering a trembling smile.

Jon touched the prince’s cheek suddenly, then slowly forced his hand away.

“Along with my apology, I offer you a boon. Anything within my power to grant.”

Damian veiled his eyes for a moment. His eyes, when he reopened them, were overbright.

“I cannot accept. Your reservations are well-reasoned. I am only ashamed to not have considered them before. As for your revenge… rarely has vengeance been served so sweet. It is I who should grant you any boon within my power.”

Jon studied the prince’s face and answered gently.

“Only that you would hate me.”

At this, Damian's tears did fall, even as he chuckled hollowly.

“Alas, such a thing is beyond my power.”

Jon sighed, and as if Damian were wreathed in thorns, gingerly gathered him in an embrace.

Damian sobbed a gasp, weakly pushing against Jon’s bare chest.

“Wherefore such kindness?”

Jon held him tighter, though his expression was one pained.

“Is it a kindness to be brought so close to the source of one’s agony?”

Damian froze, then surrendered himself to the demigod’s hold.

“It is the most cruel of kindnesses, most tender of agonies. To love a noble spirit is such a thing.”

Jon released him, unable to resist a lingering stroke against his cheek.

“I am no noble spirit.”

Damian grinned.

“Nobler by far than nobles of blood. Noble of no land, yet nobler still to any man.”

“Do you nobles honey your tongues?”

The prince laughed; a genuine, unguarded sound.

“Just our herbal draughts. I wish I had thought to pack some. The morning chill does linger.”

“Does it?” Jon asked, surprised.

Damian smiled.

“For the mortals amongst us.”

The rest of the day was as surreal as it had started. 

Jon-in-Jon tagged along as Jon went to wash up in a stream, then returned to find the camp packed and his clothes laid out for him. Damian, or the prince who was the splitting image of Damian, was kitted out in a black-bordered tunic and a shortsword belted on his hip. The belt, more than anything, was nostalgic. The happy expression was a novelty.

As soon as Jon got dressed (apparently this Jon favoured a simple loincloth and a leather-hung silver pendant the shape of a cauliflower), they continued their tracking of the supposed Stygian Scourge. Their trek through the wilderness was interspersed with Jon pointing cryptically at innocuous things like some rocks, stray cobweb strands, and even tree moss. But even Jon-in-Jon could see that the splintered human bones that they eventually came upon, pointed in the direction of something evil and dangerous.

“It’s close,” Damian breathed.

Jon glanced at the prince.

“Losing your nerve?”

“Ashamedly so.”

Jon slapped him on the back, smiling.

“Good. Courage is never found without fear.”

Damian returned the smile.

“Fortifying words. Had my father better judgment, he would place the army at your command.”

Jon barked a laugh.

“In your father’s nightmares, maybe.”

Damian grinned ruefully.

“True. He does not know you as I do.”

More carefully now, they followed the trail of death. When the way forward thickened into mist, and the stench of sulfur choked each breath, the pair set down their packs, scarcely sparing a whisper between them. They were close, and the eerie silence that permeated them was not at all reassuring. Jon’s nape prickled, and he held out a hand to touch Damian warningly. He couldn’t see (Jon-in-Jon “darned” his present lack of x-ray vision), but he heard the slow, sonorous hiss of a sword quietly drawn. Jon bit back a curse as he felt Damian step out of reach, while Jon-in-Jon echoed a more censored version.

Splitting up was the last thing they-

There was a surprised yell, and Jon swore out loud. Metal rang against rock. Sparks lit the gloom like a flash of lightning in the dark. Shadowy arcs undulated, revealing in one tentacle arm the struggling form of his prince. Jon roared in defiance, charging in with nothing more than his fists. A tentacle swung back almost lazily, then whipped at his head! Jon-in-Jon whooped as outside Jon caught it mid-swing and yanked. The creature staggered, and a dull sound of metal biting into flesh was punctuated by an unearthly screech. Jon barely snarled his approval of Damian’s lucky stab when he twisted back in alarm. He was trapped! The tentacle he held now grappled around him, and Jon strained against a fresh surge of power that dragged him to a snarling heaving mass, breathing hot rancid breath on him.

Yelling in his own rage, Jon steamed, purple cracks scoring his flesh and bleeding twilight fumes. A wet, tearing sound was consumed by an ear-splitting shriek as Jon forcibly ripped the squirming limb. Like a demon possessed, Jon lunged, grabbing a flailing tentacle in each hand. Muscles swelling with a tide of divine might, he crushed them into pulp.

Rearing back as its remaining tentacles blindly thrashed, the beast smacked Damian heavily into the ground. The sickening thud made Jon freeze in horror, but somehow the prince’s arm rose, sword piercing through the swirling mists and into the monster’s side. Blood sprayed forth, hissing as it drenched the prince who screamed.

Jon was in the air before he knew it, leaping onto the monster and grabbed whatever he could. Teeth bit into his flesh, but his half-immortal blood burned the infernal spawn even as its own dark blood ate the prince. Jon grabbed every inch of the monster he could reach, rending and shredding until, with a great heaving shudder, the squealing creature quivered to a limp lump, the stumps of its tentacles twitching sporadically.

But there was no time to celebrate his triumph. Jon broke the creature’s jaw, still clamped over his leg, and stumbled frantically to the supine body of the prince. Relief washed over him as the raw, smoking form laboured with breath. 

His joy was short-lived. As Jon fell beside the prince, he could see where the deadly blood had eaten big holes in the simple tunic… and through the prince’s lids… and...

“No… no, no, no… No!”

“I… I tried to shut- haa... sh-shut my eyes,” Damian gasped, breathless with agony, “but- b- but…”

The eyes themselves had turned an opaque white.

“It’s alright! I can fix this,” Jon reassured him, wiping the gore from his fingers and squeezing fresh blood from his leg wounds into the cup of his hand. Moving his shaking hand over Damian’s trembling face, he let the purple half-ichor, half-mortal blood slide along his finger and drip from his fingertip. Like tiny amethysts, they tumbled into the milky ruins of Damian’s eyes, accompanied by Jon’s fumbling prayers.

Damian continued to shake for a few moments, but gradually, his body eased, and his breaths, though still fast, were no longer as hard.

“The… the pain’s gone,” Damian informed Jon, but the demigod clasped the sides of the prince’s head and gazed into eyes that were weeping the last drops of his administered blood. They had turned fully white, with the slightest iridescent lustre to them, like moonstones.

Jon forced the question out of his locked throat.

“You can’t... see me?” 

Real tears, tinged purple, slipped from the blind eyes.

“I’m sorry. I acted foolishly.”

“You- you’re sorry? By what virtue are you sorry? Is it for you to be-” Jon sobbed, gathering Damian up in his arms. “ _You’re_ sorry? _You’re_ sorry?”

They held each other like that for a while, Damian trying his best to calm Jon. When Jon moved to carry him to their packs, Damian clutched the demigod’s shoulder in alarm.

“What about the spoils? Proof of our kill!”

“I don’t care about that.”

“But Father-”

“-will have me beaten anyway, so I’m not too fussed about whether he gets his trinket or not.”

“He can’t! I’ll tell him what really happened-”

“I let this happen!” Jon snapped, then continued more gently, “I was supposed to take all the danger. You were supposed to take all the glory. But I let you face the danger.”

“Konas. Konas, heed me. You paid me the honour of seeing me as a fellow warrior. A companion. I was happy. I _am_ happy.” 

Jon, or Konas, as Jon-in-Jon finally learned, swallowed hard.

“You’ve lost your sight,” he said heavily, unable to meet the prince’s ruined eyes.

“By my own folly. I was too eager to prove myself. I should have waited.”

“Prove yourself,” Jon repeated slowly with a sudden chill. “To prove yourself to me?”

“Konas- I- no-”

Jon ground his teeth so hard, he could taste the nectar sweetness and copper tang of his blood in his mouth. He stifled a sob, lungs straining to draw a breath he couldn’t take, his fists clenched so tightly, they paled and went numb. Jon buckled to his knees, and the ground rose up to meet him.

Jon woke up to a cool sensation over his forehead. Instinctively, his hand reached for his forehead and touched the damp cloth there. With a jolt, he sat bolt upright, but a wave of dizziness made him groan and cradle his head in his hands. 

“Ixias!”

“I’m here.”

And he was. Damian, or Ixias, who could’ve been Damian’s ancient twin, bore an expression full of concern. He spared none of it for his own ruined eyes- only for the rough bandage on Konas’ leg.

“Does it hurt?”

“You tied that?” Konas rasped. 

Ixias smiled wanly.

“I did what I could. I tore the first garment I found in our packs.”

Konas glanced at the two packs, one of which was open with all of its contents spilled out.

“You… brought them here?”

Ixias managed a chuckle.

“I rolled into them trying to get up. We must have fallen just next to them.”

“Your… eyes…”

Konas couldn’t help the treacherous surge of hope, but Ixias’ gentle expression opened a cold pit in his heart.

“I don’t need them to tie bandages, it seems, and I will get better with practice- for everything else too.”

Konas couldn’t seem to swallow the knot in his throat.

“Konas? Are you feeling ill again?” 

Ixias reached out, trying to feel the demigod’s face, but Konas caught his hands. The demigod hesitated, then pressed the fingers to his heart.

“I will make this right.”

“Konas-”

“There’s something I haven’t told you. Something I haven’t told anyone. I haven’t been sentenced to serve your family as punishment.”

Ixias turned so that his ear faced Konas.

“I made a deal with the gods. In exchange for serving your family for eighteen years, I will be made a true god.”

Ixias brows rose, but he silently waited for Konas to continue. Konas gently squeezed Ixias’ hands.

“Once I’m a true god, I’ll be able to restore your eyes. In the meantime… I’ll protect you. Clear the path you walk. Pave the roads you travel.” Konas chewed his lip for a moment, then added, “And… when the darkness grows heavy… if this body… if this heart can give you solace…”

Ixias set his sightless gaze low, but his voice was steady.

“Why?”

“What?”

“Do you desire me?”

Konas’ mouth groped for the right words, but it was Ixias who spoke again.

“Do you pity me?”

“No! I-”

“I am not… I am not your equal in strength or skill. No, you are the greatest warrior I have ever known, even without your divine strength. When I first saw you in battle… it took my breath away. Not just because there wasn't a single warrior that could stand against you, but because you made every warrior watching want to stand with you. You never showed off. You never bullied. You took every challenge seriously, and delivered every defeat with a solemnity that spoke of respect. Respect between equals, even when no one is your equal.”

Ixias reclaimed his hands and fisted them in his lap.

“Today, I was rash. I was foolish. I maimed myself by my recklessness- but I stood with you! I have enjoyed no higher honour- there’s no higher honour than to have stood shoulder to shoulder with you. Defending the innocent. Vanquishing evil. I… perhaps vainly, I… I thought perhaps I had earned some measure of your respect. That because I stood with you, I had earned a place by your side on the battlefield.”

“Ixias-”

“But… now… you see my battle scars as a wrong that you must right. You see my courage as something you accidentally tricked out of me. That had you not challenged me to prove myself, I wouldn’t have fought so hard, wouldn’t have risked so much. But I… You can’t… Don’t cast such shame upon my deeds. I cannot bear it.”

Konas’ hung his head, then punched himself with dizzying force. Ixias started, then grabbed at Konas in a panic, stopping a second blow from connecting. Ixias shook his head frantically and rested it on Konas’ heaving chest, his hands smoothing over Konas’ taut face as the demigod swallowed the blood in his mouth. Konas quivered with tight emotion for several breaths, before he finally eased into a soft sigh.

“Why are you so kind to me?” Konas demanded. “I have not been kind to you.”

Ixias continued to stroke the demigod’s swollen cheek, misery etched in his knitted brows.

“This is twice, now, that you’ve suffered injury because of my hasty deeds and words. Can kindness be so wicked?”

“Now who’s robbing whom of honour? I deserved those punches because I should have known I was being unworthy. And I want to be worthy because... you’ve misunderstood one thing.”

Ixias tilted his head up worriedly.

“Of course I desire you.”

Ixias sucked in sharply and drew his head away, turning confusedly this way and that, as if the world had suddenly inverted itself.

“I never denied it. I am a man, too, and you are equal parts innocent and beautiful. For the past five years, my body has been painfully aware of the siren-sweet yearning of yours, and my thoughts distracted by your agonisingly shy hovering at the edge of my perception. I would have pinned you to my bed by now had you not been the son of a man I hate, and brother to the other men I despise even more.”

Jon-in-Konas would have flushed if he had his own body, and it didn’t help that Ixias was already doing just that with Damian’s face.

“Pinned?” Ixias squeaked, absolutely crimson.

“Do you prefer to do the pounding? I wouldn’t mind it either way- after a five-year wait, I would want my fill of both. Of all of it.”

Ixias covered his face, which was just as well because Jon couldn’t even deal with the squirming, flaming, rioting butterflies, tickling him from the underside of his skin… or the edge of his soul, he supposed.

“But- and maybe you won’t believe me- but... It’s only right now. It’s only at this moment that I can admit how my heart aches, just realising how beautiful you truly are.”

Ixias uncovered his face, and peered up by instinct. He ducked down again, as if remembering something.

“I… I must look hideous… my eyes…”

“...are about as attractive as any war wound. No. Truly. You know the ugliest thing?”

“No.”

“Lips twisted in arrogance. Eyes dead with indifference. Faces caked in smarmy insincerity. Truly grotesque. But your eyes… shocking as they are… makes you real and vulnerable. Just like how my scars, those I bear on my flesh, and those I bear within, are real and also thresholds to my true, unguarded self.”

Ixias bit his trembling lower lip. It took a few shuddering breaths before he could speak.

“Why do I believe you?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because... I don’t deserve it.”

Konas felt the young prince shaking in his arms and checked a sigh.

“Are you scared?”

Ixias nodded emphatically.

“You weren’t this scared when we faced that creature.”

Ixias swallowed.

“I knew I wouldn’t lose you on a battlefield...”

“...and you’re terrified because this isn’t like a battlefield...”

Ixias bowed his head, not daring to meet Konas’ gaze, even blind.

“... and you could lose me now,” Konas finished. Ixias didn’t look up. “So what shall we do about this new state of affairs? We don’t have to do anything if you’re afraid. Or do you want me to promise I’ll never leave you?”

“No!” Now Ixias did raise his head. “No, I- I know what your word means to you. It’s one of the things I- I really admire about you. It’s just… I’m sorry. I’m an incredible fool-”

“No… that honour goes to me.” Konas stroked the steep slope of Ixias’ nose with the edge of his thumb. “It took me five years to realise what a boon I was being offered. But I’d be a bigger fool for waiting a moment longer. Please be brave. For me.”

Ixias fell powerlessly against Konas’ solid length and mumbled into the demigod’s warm chest.

“My heart has surrendered itself to you long ago. Has any part of me been free since then?”

Konas wrapped his arms around the prince.

“And now you hold my heart captive.”

Ixias pressed his blushing face even harder against the reassuring rigidity.

“You hid your silver tongue well.”

“Why, thank you. Though I must say, speech is not the best use of my tongue.”

Ixias looked up in such honest confusion, that Konas cleared his throat and kissed the prince’s forehead instead.

“Shall we camp here tonight?”

Ixias nodded but his frown returned.

“Will we really not collect proof of our kill?”

Konas regarded the sun, which seemed to promise a few more hours of daylight, and turned to study Ixias doubtfully.

“I could stay here while you retrieve it," Ixias suggested, "we’ve been safe here, and I’m not completely defenseless…” Ixias started patting the ground around him and Konas glanced around them. 

“The dagger?”

“Yes!”

Konas pushed it next to Ixias’ probing fingers and the prince snatched it up with a smile. But it wasn’t until the demigod had set up a bolthole of sorts, and sequestered the prince within, that he reluctantly departed. He’d done everything he could think of: bolstering the natural defenses of an outcrop of rock with withered brambles, woody and sharp ones that would naturally disguise the open sides, and even drizzling them with a phial of a potent sleeping draught. The nature spirit that had taught its making to Konas had ensnared many a mortal by lacing the thorns of her wild roses with it. Still, a gnawing guilt in the pit of his stomach was driving him to distraction. With a growl, he quickened his pace, ploughing through the thickening mist.

_Konas..._

Konas froze, his skin prickling.

_Konas… come to me..._

“Reveal yourself!”

_Konas… Konas…_

Konas stood his ground, allowing his senses to deepen.

Laughter fluttered in several directions at once, all in the same, cold voice.

_Would you try to fight me… my son…? But you have no time for that…_

Konas jaw shifted tightly.

“You claim to be my mother?”

_What a silly question... I am as I’ve always been. But, my son, you have no time for this. The gods have betrayed you._

A chill ran down Konas’ spine, but he jutted his chin out defiantly.

“If you’re really my mother, you’re one of them. One of the gods. Why would you betray _them?_ ”

The response came with some definite heat. The mist turned crimson.

_I? One of those hypocrites? They who dare judge mortals for their hubris when there are none with more hubris than those treacherous children?_

Konas stepped back, fists clenched, but the voice cooled, and the mists returned to their pallor.

_My child. I birthed you in much secrecy, nursing you, my vengeance, where those so-called gods could not see. Then I sent you out into the world, where you would be a god-hero amongst men. That you would turn the worship of mortals away from those false gods._

_And I watched with pride as your great deeds earned the homage of the kingdoms of men. But the gods were jealous, and they freed one of my chains in the hope that I would strike you down on their behalf, not knowing that you are my son._

_Instead, I made a prophecy that you would be the end of them- of all the gods. Panicked, they bound me once more, and tried to be rid of you through mankind. They whispered into the minds of their followers that you wished to conquer their lands and rule over them. Soon, mobs and assassins struck at you, and when none succeeded, those who loved you became their targets instead._

Konas swallowed hard, fists slowly loosening.

_Unwilling to see more innocents suffer, you, my beloved son, left civilisation for the wilds. But still the gods were fearful. They sent one of their own to trick you into servitude. Their knave promised, falsely, that they could make you a god. They enslaved you to the worst of their servants. A man knowing little of honour and even less of shame. For eighteen years, they told you, you must serve. But even in that they lied._

_For they have some sight into the future, my son, and could tell that one of their servant’s sons would be of noble heart and bound by love to you. They mined cold iron from the riverbeds of the Styx and crafted two horrors. The lesser one they filled with mortal wickedness until it split into a hundred-toothed maw, festering with a myriad wormlike arms. That one you slew today. But the greater one, they sharpened with their immortal spite and fashioned into a dagger. The very same dagger they made their servant gift to his son, before the young prince left on this quest._

The clammy grip of fear squeezed the air out of Konas’ lungs, the image of Ixias gripping his dagger with an encouraging nod of his head for Konas to hurry, now horrifyingly clear in his mind.

_He was dead the moment he drew the dagger, my son, for that cursed dagger is the doom of all men, though it can do no harm to those who carry the blood of the gods. Even as we speak, the prince’s poisoned heart beats its last rhythm, and there is nothing you can do to stop it._

But Konas wasn’t listening anymore, turning around and pushing blindly through the mists.

Ixias. Ixias. Ixias.

He chanted the word over and over in his mind, but the fear thundering in his chest left part of his mind grasping again for whatever his mother had to say.

_Though his heart will stop, his soul will remain in his body, for his eyes have been anointed with the molten iron of Styx and my divine blood through you. So consecrated, his eyes are beyond mortal constraints, and the eyes are gateways to the soul. His soul is trapped in his body, locked behind his immortal eyes, even as the rest of his body dies. There is but one way to free him._

Konas froze.

_Carve out his eyes._

Konas sucked in a sharp breath.

"And if I wish to save him, instead?"

_He is beyond saving._

"Unless?"

The voice was silent.

"Unless what? I know gods, and they never appear unless they want something for themselves. What do I do so you'll save him?"

Cold laughter echoed all around him.

_Well said, my son. Very well. Take the blade and stab your lover in his heart. My spirit shall enter yours and draw the dagger's poison back into it. Your prince, he who is loved above all the gods, shall wake without a mark on him once you remove the dagger._

Konas hesitated.

"And the price?"

_Does it matter? Is there any price you will not pay?_

With a twisted smile, Konas turned back the way he came, the mists parting helpfully as he did.

Konas was stony-faced when he carefully removed the brambles and drew out Ixias’ still body. Jon cried, unheeded, when Konas stroked the prince’s pale cheek and felt no warmth there. He could feel Konas’ anger, like a brewing storm bearing heavily down on his reason, yet the clouds would not break. It could only grow darker, heavier. A flash of feral fury lashed as Konas, and Jon through his eyes, saw that Ixias still clutched the dagger to his bosom, innocently fulfilling his promise to keep himself safe until Konas returned.

His damaged eyes, perpetually opened with the loss of his lids, gleamed in the shaft of twilight that yet touched his face. Jon was struck with a sudden urge to hold this vulnerable young man who was the spitting image of Damian, but Konas reached for the hilt of the dagger instead, clasping over where Ixias clutched it in his cold hand. His hand lingered there until the fingers of encroaching dusk stretched across his lover’s body.

With a pang, Konas pried the dagger out of Ixias’ grasp. It was hard to breathe all of a sudden, but he couldn't think of that. As if the shadows had thickened to the dark mud of a soul-sucking bog, Konas had to fight to bring the trembling dagger over Ixias' chest. Even if Jon could have, he would have scarcely drawn breath himself. 

The dagger plunged down- and stopped, quivering just above the prince's heart. Konas gasped desperately, struggling to fill his burning lungs even as horror gripped his throat tight. Jon looked on miserably from within.

Then a gasp; terrible and sickened. The knife slid smoothly into the young man’s flesh and the tears spilled from Konas’ eyes as he forced himself to watch the monstrous act before him. From deep within him, his soul tore, and from the tear, a darkness spilled, flooding his mind with a numbing chaos that rapidly drowned all thought. Jon thrashed wildly, but the cold surge swallowed him whole too. 

_Awaken._

The voice was like the thunderous scraping of a thousand blades scything against each other, echoing in his mind- like the entity wasn’t quite used to using a mouth. As if the entity sensed Jon’s thoughts, Konas’ mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Instead, the terrible voice blasted with psychic fury as Konas’ hands stabbed the dagger down hard.

_AWAKEN!_

As if the awful squelch of the wound roused him, Konas choked, but the dagger suddenly grew painfully cold. It was like he held a burning icicle in his hands, hewn from whatever cursed corner of the underworld his mother was imprisoned within. Konas watched, transfixed, as the dagger throbbed with an unearthly light. Like tarnished silver gleaming under a bloody moon, the cursed dagger pushed up against his grip, rising from Ixias’ heart, weeping black blood.

Konas’ hands fell away as the dagger continued to rise on its own power, but a choked gasp made Konas forget everything else. 

Ixias was... shaking... heaving... desperate for air. _Ixias was a_ _live._ Like mist evaporating in a glorious blaze of sunlight, the dark shadow in Konas’ mind dissipated.

“Ix-Ixias... Ixias!” Konas braced himself over Ixias, trembling almost as badly as the young prince beneath him. He didn’t even notice as the cursed dagger floated away. Ixias’ hands lifted themselves to Konas’ face, tears slipping down his own.

“Ko-Konas?”

“Ixias! Ixias… Ixias…”

Konas didn’t even remember who started it, but they were locked in each other’s embrace, impulsive kisses pressed into Ixias’ forehead and cheek, and Konas’ neck and collarbone. 

“I’m sorry… so sorry... “ Konas breathed but Ixias was already shaking his head, his hands stroking his lover’s taut face.

“No, no, this isn’t your fault-”

“I’m going to make it right. My mother will make it right-”

“I know, my love. I’ve been trying to tell you. I’ve seen it. I’ve somehow… gained the sight.”

Konas stilled, staring uncomprehendingly at the moonstone light of Ixias’ eyes. Ixias’ smile turned a little bitter.

“I can see… into the future. I know what your… mother… has planned for you.”

Konas swallowed hard. He shut his eyes and kissed Ixias’ neck before whispering in his prince’s ear. 

“It doesn’t matter. Do you imagine there’s anything I wouldn’t do? To bring you back?”

“Then you’ll understand that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save you.”

Konas drew back, meeting Ixias’ moist, sightless gaze. Ixias brushed Konas’ lips, voice as brittle as frost on grass.

“Your mother means for you to be the blade that shall end the gods. Through your blood and bone, she will free herself from where her treacherous cousins have imprisoned her and rain vengeance upon all the realms. She is Nemesis, she who metes retribution, and her fury will not be denied.”

Konas shuddered. Unearthly harmonics in the voice of one he loved so well lent a power to Ixias’ words. The words of a seer.

“She will consume you,” Ixias continued as Konas felt a seething hatred that was not his own, bubble up from the depths of his mind, “and in so doing, try to turn you into the maw that shall consume everything else. But I can save you.”

“And how will you save him?” Konas heard himself speak in a voice that was his, but coated in deadly venom.

Ixias took in a sharp breath, but he steadied himself.

“By making a deal with you, Dread Mistress.”

“A deal?”

“By your immortal blood and the spite of the gods, my eyes have been hallowed to pierce through the veil of time. I see the gods of old falling before your dread power. I see humanity cowering before your triumph. You don Konas like a suit of armor as you sack and raze city after city, village after village.”

“Then I win!”

“But you are also defeated.”

“Lies!”

“Truth. Konas’ mortality is hastened with each use of your divine might. In ten years, his… his heart fails... and you are banished to your prison once again. Thereafter, a lull is broken by the return of gods who walk the earth once again... while you, Dread Mistress, remain in your prison.”

Konas feels the hatred radiate out from him like a thousand twisted barbs, all aimed at Ixias who was still in his arms. Konas, and even Jon, tried to grip the rage back, but it was like an ant straining against an ox. Then the ghastly force paused.

“And you can prevent this from passing?”

Ixias nodded, sending a thrill through Nemesis. 

“But only if you vow that he and I will never be parted. In life. In death. In eternity. Vow it, and I shall give you the means to vanquish the gods- forever.”

“Ixias!” Konas gasped but Nemesis bore down on him ruthlessly. 

“I vow it. I vow it by the Styx, if you give me the means to vanquish the gods forever, Konas and Ixias are forever bound. In life. In death. In all the eternal realms.”

Ixias sighed, as if the fate of all the world had been sealed. The regret in his smile was unmistakable.

“Then it is done, Dread Mistress. All victory is yours.”

He told her everything, and Jon screamed.

* * *

“-Jon! Young Master Jon!”

Jon jolted upright, very nearly decapitating a surprisingly deft Alfred.

“Damian!” Jon gasped but Alfred was already shaking his head.

“Gone when I came to. Master Bruce and your father are searching for him right now, along with the rest of the Justice League. Your father asked for you to stay-”

Jon was already speeding towards the open door. 

Open door?

Jon caught only a glimpse of the rapidly receding butler, but he could have sworn Alfred had winked.

Feeling as if Wayne Manor itself had given him its blessings, Jon rushed into battle.

But first, where was the battle?

Jon allowed the sounds of Gotham to soak into him. 

A baby crying. An angry teenager yelling at her mom. A woman pleading for someone to stop! He’d rescue her along the- wait. Oh! Jon blushed. No-no-no-no- she wasn’t going to need any help. Jon shook his head frustratedly and tuned in harder.

_“We can help you, Damian. It doesn’t have to be this way.”_

The voice was Damian’s but the venom was Nemesis’.

_“It seems you are the father of Ixias of this incarnation. It shall give me pleasure to have the deceitful whore kill you slowly.”_

Jon was a streak of red and blue blasting through the cityscape, his mind aflame.

So it was a trick! But how?

 _“Split your essence between us, and the prison of the gods shall no longer hold you,”_ Ixias had revealed. _“What your son cannot endure alone, two can bear. He with his half-divine blood, and I with my thrice-blessed eyes.”_

Jon had stayed long enough in the vision to feel Nemesis pour out of him and drive a great part of itself into a thrashing Ixias.

But somehow it had all been a trick! How? Jon gnashed his teeth. He wasn’t going to get any answers simply repeating the same questions.

“Almost… there…”

_“Bruce!”_

_“Ugh!”_

_BZZZZEEEEEEMMN!_

The image of his father’s laser eye beams flashed across his mind, and his heart thundered in his ears.

“Don’t hurt my Dad!” Jon yelled, bursting within view. Damian had somersaulted high in the air, twin blades sucking in all light as they crested the once-assassin’s descent. Superman puffed his cheeks and blew hard, but even as the skyscraper’s rooftop frosted over, Damian had vanished-

-only to reappear behind Clark, a vicious-edged sword- Mistilteinn- Jon just knew- piercing through his dad’s cape-

SCH-PIIINNG-PIINNG-PING! 

Batarangs!

Sparks flared as Damian’s sword slashed sideways instead, cutting free a square of red. Superman swung back with inhuman speed, a meteoric fist smashing into Damian’s jaw.

Jon felt his heart stop. Damian toppled… into a neat roll and swung his swords out. Superman took to the air. Jon couldn’t shout his warning in time.

A blast of eldritch light scythed like a violet halo, slamming right into his father just as five plumes of smoke hissed all around Damian, obscuring all sight. The firing of a gun and the hiss of a wire close by were all the warning Jon got to turn to the side. A clink and whirr, and Batman flew past, Clark wrapped in one arm.

Through a grimace, his father caught his eye.

“Jon-” he managed weakly, then was gone in a flash. Just not before Jon saw the fear in his eyes. Fear for his son.

The stark image ripped to the real image of a sword edge stabbing right between his-

BSHWEEEEEEEEEM!

Jon blasted with all the force in his eyes. Darkness eclipsed his solar heat vision. 

Mistilteinn! Again! The sword hummed almost gloatingly as Damian vanished in a swirl of his other shorter sword’s shadow. Hemlock!

Jon spun around just as Damian, suddenly behind him, slashed down with Mistilteinn’s edge. Jon swung himself out in a wide arc, but Mistilteinn reversed course. A burst of violet light! 

“NNHGGH!”

Jon dropped, barely focusing through the pain to see Damian, swordpoint-first, falling after him.

“Da-mi-” Jon gasped.

Damian’s mouth split into a crazed smile.

“Konas! Now you pay!”

Nemesis screeched with laughter- then she screamed. Damian screamed. Even as his trembling hand drove Hemlock deeper into his side.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Jon exploded with light. Everything paled as Jon grappled Damian’s Mistilteinn-wielding hand and pinned it back. Hooking Damian’s chest with his free arm, Jon pulled him up, dragging him up into the sky.

The rush of the wind behind him, even voices calling out his name, didn’t make him stop. He didn’t want to stop! He wouldn’t stop.

Damian turned to face him with a fevered fury that was unmistakably inhuman.

“Do you think you can kill me with this? I’m immortal! I’m-”

“SHUT UP! Shut up… Dami… Dami hang in there...”

Jon searched Damian’s blue-green eyes, catching all the traces of Damian fierce intensity warring against Nemesis’ mad gleam. 

“S...swo...d…” Damian’s voice was a mere whisper as the air whistled deafeningly around them, but it was a voice Jon would have heard through a storm.

In a tenth of a second, Jon released Damian’s arm and gripped Hemlock, still buried in Damian’s side. He pulled!

Blood gushed out of the wound as Damian stiffened with a shout of pain. Jon shifted his hold to add pressure to the wound, still the blood… 

Mistilteinn twitched in Damian’s grasp but hung limp.

“Dami!” Jon cried, terrified by Damian’s pallor. Sweat beading his face, Damian found the strength to meet Jon's frantic gaze.

“Fight… her…”

“Wha-UNGH! HNHH!”

He could have fallen from the sky. Perhaps he was. The sky had inverted itself, and the ground was expanding up into the empty void above. Between the two roiled the eternal rage that was Nemesis- a dark, boiling cloud of venom that vaporised everything it touched. 

“Fool me, Ixias? FOOL _ME?_ No one can stop me! NO OOOOOOONE!”

Her disembodied voice echoed like thunder in the great cataclysm, crushing him in its grip.

But Damian’s words reverberated in every atom of his being.

 _Fight her. Fight her. Fight her!_

Someone’s memory sprung in his mind. Ixias smiling tearfully over Konas’ shoulder as the demigod hugged him.

“Forgive you? You saved me! Sacrificed yourself to do that!”

Ixias tightly clutched that broad, broad back, as if he was never letting go.

“I’ve only signed our executions. We can’t suppress her forever, and we must become the weapons that will deliver her will. The Styx is the only place that will hold her for good.”

Konas kissed the prince’s nape, tears glistening on his lashes.

“Not right away. We don’t have to end this right away. It’ll be a while before we can’t hold her back anymore, and before that…” he drew back and kissed Ixias deeply against his lips, “...If you’ll have me... I want to marry you.”

Ixias buried his head against Konas’ powerful chest that seemed like it could shield him from all the Furies of the underworld. 

“The gods will hunt us down, but… the gods be damned… my father and his army be damned... I want to be with you… take me with you. Take me anywhere with you.”

And Konas did, even to the end, when they consigned themselves to their watery grave in the heart of the Styx, their fading breaths lacing each other in a stream of stoic bubbles, their souls finally free of Nemesis’ poison…

Jon felt a warmth enclose him, and he opened his eyes…

“Pa…”

Clark’s bright blue eyes shone with concern.

“Are you hurt? Let go of that sword!”

“No, Pa… it’s alright now…”

“Jon?”

“Really…” Jon sensed that he had an audience ringing them up amongst the clouds. “Everything’s fine now…” he tried to announce to the assembled heroes. Jon looked down at Damian who was still in his grasp; pale and grumpy, but nodding weakly. 

Clark turned his gaze between them both and sighed.

“I think we all have to hear a bit more about this.”

* * *

Damian had needed a blood transfusion, conveniently leaving all the explaining to Jon.

“But these memories… I mean… we’re going to just trust them?” The Flash demanded.

“They are genuine. I am certain,” Martian Manhunter declared gravely.

“Still-”

“I trust my son,” Clark added, earning him a quick glance of gratitude from Jon.

“It’s not a question of trust,” Aquaman reminded them, “it’s a matter of the risk we take if we are wrong.”

“The kid stabbed himself in the side-” Green Lantern, the guy, protested.

“No one’s questioning Damian-” the lady Green Lantern explained in an overly patient tone, “-this is about the safety of millions. Billions!”

Jon tried to hide Hemlock more fully behind his cape.

“The fact remains that we have failed to contain the weapons on our own,” Cyborg pointed out, “ _twice._ ”

Wonder Woman said nothing. Her steely blue gaze bore into Hemlock. Jon was sweating bullets.

Clark rose from his seat.

“This is getting nowhere, and my son has been interrogated for hours-”

“-forty-three minutes-” Cyborg muttered.

“-and I think he’s earned a break. We still have ice-cream in the fridge, right?” 

It took a great force of will for Jon to say the next words.

“Actually… I’ll pass.” Clark goggled at him and Jon coughed. “I would like to see Damian, though... if I may?”

Clark turned back to the others then turned to his son again.

“Damian probably needs his rest… but I guess a short visit wouldn’t really hurt.”

The guy Green Lantern snorted softly while the lady Green Lantern flashed him a wry smile.

“Batman might even thank him for it,” he muttered to his partner and Jon and felt a twinge of jealousy. When did everyone become privy to Damian’s sickbed manners?

* * *

“I demand 2000TC, Egyptian cotton sheets, Netflix, and a shirt. My nipples can cut diamonds.”

Kent father and son wore matching blushes as they walked into the infirmary. Batman was absently checking his son’s vitals on the monitor.

“I’ve seen you sleep on the back of a giant mutant bat, your shirt stays off until we’re sure that wound’s healed up thoroughly, and you don’t watch Netflix.”

“I meant the company. They will rue the day they cancelled Shadowhunters.”

“What’s a Shadowhunter?”

“Who said ‘Shadowhunter’? I didn’t say ‘Shadowhunter’.”

Clark cleared his throat.

“How’s he looking, Bruce?”

Batman didn’t even look up.

“The external wound’s closed up cleanly. Not even a scar to show for it. But his blood pressure is a little low, which could be a sign of internal bleeding. It’s a little swollen too. Again- possible sign of internal bleeding.”

“What!” Jon squeaked, darting over to Damian’s bed.

Clark hovered over more calmly, staring at Damian’s side. 

“You’re right,” he concluded, turning his gaze to Batman at last, “some bleeding, some inflammation.” He glanced at Damian. “Is there any pain?”

Damian shrugged.

“It hurts,” Jon confirmed, reaching for Damian’s arm. His gaze slid along the red IV tube and the blood bag hanging above. It made his skin crawl.

“It’ll heal,” Damian declared to the room at large.

Batman stared at the dark sword by his son’s side.

“It didn’t take this long last time.” 

“Maybe the effect of the swords is halved now that Jon’s taken over one of them,” Superman pointed out.

“Hemlock,” Jon supplied.

Batman sighed.

“Or it could be that the swords don’t heal the damage they themselves deal very well. Then there’s the fact that this… Hemlock… is the blade that hurts mortals- those who aren’t metahuman.”

“Pfft. Mom said I was ‘unkillable’, remember?”

Bruce looked over to his son.

“The ‘Chosen One’ is. We don’t know if you still are.”

“I’m irreplaceable.”

Jon smiled distractedly, his brilliant turquoise eyes running over all of Damian, fingers twitching like they wanted to follow.

“Yeah, you are.”

Damian caught the light along his jawline as he lifted it, the spectrum of aquamarine facets aglitter in the depths of his eyes. Somehow he managed a smile that wasn’t a smile.

“TT!”

Bruce and Clark exchanged glances.

“I need to check something with Cyborg,” Batman announced.

“I’ll go with you!” Superman chipped in with surprising enthusiasm. Batman facepalmed.

Damian gave them a sidelong look, but Jon turned anxiously to Bruce.

“He’ll need surgery, then.”

Batman lifted his head and shook it.

“To operate on the tissue damage, we’d have to make an incision. But any incision we make is likely to heal in seconds. Surface wounds still heal quickly, as you’ve seen. If it comes to it, we could try nanomachines, or…” Batman had to work his jaw up to it, “ _magic_. But he’s still stable for now… and I’m hoping the sword’s regenerative effect on Damian will continue to mend him.” Batman paused. “Which I guess... is also magic.”

Superman patted his old friend as Bruce shook his head again.

“We’ll be at the Crow’s Nest if you need us.”

They hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps past the threshold of the infirmary before Clark brought it up.

“You were listening in on the briefing?”

“Of course.”

“What do you think?”

“The swords are better with the boys.”

“Oh. And about the… er… Ixias and Konas stuff?”

“...Martian Manhunter’s confirmed it.”

“Yeah… but… what does it all mean? For… for our boys?”

“Clark… are you asking me if those swords are making our sons gay for each other?”

“No! Well…”

“Not that I have a problem with either of them being gay-” 

“-I don’t! ...have a problem, either…”

“-I don’t think the swords are making them gay for each other.”

“Oh. Good.”

“I think that ship’s sailed long ago.”

“Oh. Wait, what?”

* * *

The hiss of pneumatic doors had barely faded before Jon buried his face into Damian’s bare, hard chest. 

“It’s been driving me crazy. What is this? The sword?”

Damian grimaced, but he shifted himself closer to Jon’s body, feeling his childhood friend instinctively press closer. 

“They like being close, I guess. And since the swords are tied to us…”

Jon angled his head up enough for his bright blue eyes to dawn above Damian’s collarbone.

“We like being closer too?”

Damian shrugged noncommittally, though his eyes smouldered as they traced Jon’s fringe where it brushed his skin. Jon tilted his head and sighed, his careless breath teasing Damian’s nipple. His hand that held Hemlock was tucked firmly underneath the bed. He didn’t want to see that dark blade anywhere near Damian.

“Do _you_ remember what happened to Konas and Ixias?” Jon asked, sighing wistfully again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Damian rasped, a blush darkening the rich brass of his face.

Jon raised his head and Damian hastily turned away.

“You- you weren’t inside Ixias’ head? That was just me?”

Damian peeked at Jon’s face- almond-milk skin flushed with anxiety, wave-curl brows anguished, and achingly blue eyes as hauntingly bright as an aurora. His back arched so very slightly, of its own accord, and his battle-hardened abdomen tightened over his injury, making him wince.

Jon jolted to his injured side at once, eyes intent upon the hidden bleeding within.

Hemlock clinked against the bed frame, and Mistilteinn hummed in response.

“Ixias-” Damian began impulsively and Jon looked up, his face still etched with concern, “that’s greek for mistletoe… Mistilteinn. Same with Hemlock. Koneio, from the word Konas, meaning ‘whirling’.”

When Jon didn’t say anything, Damian added, “On account of the vertigo you get if you eat poison hemlock.” 

Jon’s eyes widened. 

“So… so, the swords are…”

Damian shrugged.

“I don’t know any Ixias or Konas, or any evil entity they may or may not have suppressed, or if their souls transmigrated while their consciousnesses became a psychic prison for said evil entity, that I unlocked like a badass because I might be an incarnation of one of them, just like you are an incarnation for the other, which is why I needed you to suppress the dark entity again. I know absolutely nothing about anything like that.”

Jon gaped.

“You’re- you’re amazing.”

Damian smirked.

“That, I do in fact know.”

Jon made a face, then rested a hand against Damian’s side, which wiped the hooked smile off of Damian’s face.

“I can’t believe you hurt yourself like that.”

“TT!”

Damian studied the smoothly-tempered masculinity in Jon’s face, the premature scars on its youth as shockingly vivid as the innocence in his flawlessly blue eyes. This was the face he had fantasised punching over a hundred times just a couple of years ago? This was the face he _had_ punched when they brawled as kids?

This was the face that had been looking up at him in freefall, wrenched in pain, but glaring determinedly. Staring unflinchingly at the childhood friend who was going to kill him- his resolve unclouded, unyielding. And Damian realised Jon was going to sacrifice himself. And Damian couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let that happen.

Jon felt his cheeks grow hot under Damian’s brazen stare. Shyly, he took his hand away from Damian’s bare skin.

“Ixias-” Damian started abruptly, startling a tiny hum of surprise from Jon, “-Ixias made Nemesis seal her own fate by binding his to Konas’. Just one of them, alone, would never have stood a chance against her influence, but together-”

Jon’s eyes lit up, remembering-

“-Konas and Ixias are forever bound. In life. In death.”

“In all the eternal realms. I vow it.”

Damian's silken tones tugged exquisitely on Jon’s heart.

“Damian… you’re like… really popular, aren’t you… with the ladies?”

Damian stroked Mistilteinn idly. Forged out of Konas, Jon realised.

“The whole point of… that feeling... isn’t being chosen by whoever and however many… it’s getting to choose.”

Jon swallowed.

“Oh. I thought you said you don’t remember anything about Ixias and Konas.”

“I don’t-”

“Liar.”

“-but I’d probably do the same thing, if it were me. If I had to choose. There are worse things than having you as a partner.”

Jon could have camouflaged himself on a tomato vine, but he managed an honest smile. 

“There are few things better.”

And to both their surprise, Damian let him have the last word.

* * *

THE END

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> The death of a classmate, and my belated realisation of it because of my self-exile from my old classmates and friends, hit pretty hard, catching me in the middle of writing this. While I'm mostly okay now as long as I don't think too much about it, it's reminded me that we shouldn't assume that those old friends and classmates of ours will always be there waiting for whenever we're ready to reconnect with them. In his memory, I encourage you, kind reader, to send a little smile to someone you haven't spoken to in a while. Gnawing regret is a terrible feeling.


End file.
